breathing advent

She asked how I was doing. I paused long enough to let the honesty sink into my bones.

"Exhausted." I said. "Exhausted and waiting."

"It's like you're breathing advent" she answered.

And my breath caught in my chest because how did she know? How did she know that this month more than any other month embodies me and swallows me whole? I become the dates and the hours and the minutes and waiting takes up every square inch of this skin.

Another friend tells me that December is her darkness. I smile in response to that, because for me, it has become my holy place.

It's my holy place because it is my darkness.

I think we've forgotten that holiness appears anywhere—catching us off guard and pointing us toward Home. And sometimes, we flail and thrash because not here. Holiness does not belong here.

But maybe that's the point? Because if I remember correctly {and I think I do}, this season is about bloody and messy and labored breathing amidst animal dust and the scent of straw crashing into Divinity and angel song.

It's baby fingers clutching at eternity.

The juxtaposition of messy and holy.

So yes, I am breathing advent. I am sitting in the dark, expectant. And while I rest here, the vibrations of holy—of promises fulfilled and the moment of exhale—grow stronger and stronger.